After The Sociopath
by Dark Antid0te
Summary: Set after His Last Vow !SPOILERS!, Angst and dark themes With John now busy with a baby and a tired wife, Sherlock is left alone to deal with the threat of Moriarty now apparently being back. It's hard to keep a straight face when everything you know is crumbling around you. Contains drug use, self harm and suicide themes.


So so so so so so sorry about the long wait with Becoming The Sociopath. With school and assignments. I'm busy. But I'm planning to work on three stories at nice and you should get one a week. I'll mainly focus on Becoming The Sociopath. This story will over quickly and ill probs start the other later on because I plan it to be king, but it's a very good idea, I'm sure you'll love it.  
I'll be writing them at school as well as home on my iPad, so you'll get them faster than you would if I were on my computer.  
Enjoy, this story had lots if angst and feels.

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The 5th patch was pressed against the underside of his forearm, nicotine sinking through his sweaty and pale skin, allowing relief but not enough. Never enough.  
He had the desire to put all the nicotine patches in the box on his arms, for a moment he thought about the consequences. He had been doing this for nearly a month now.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to the side of the room, watching the closed door with a normal, cold gaze, as if daring it to open and for someone to stop him. But then he looked to the empty red chair by the fireplace, catching dust and with the permanent crease in the seat. Feeling a sudden, unusual pain he had grown to feel a lot lately, Sherlock winced. He blinked, thinking that once he opened his eyes again that chair wouldn't be dusty and there would be a figure sitting, drinking tea, reading the newspaper and telling him to stop sulking.  
But his wish was never fulfilled and the space remained depressingly empty, upon hating the sudden and unwelcome feeling that coiled along his chest, his back arched as if in pain, head lolling back and eyes unseeing.

Frantically, his lanky, right arm with a rolled up sleeve reached out blindly for the packet of patches, long fingers finding the correct purchase and fiddling for the inside, grabbing a few in between nails and pulling them over.  
Slight relief teased at his skin at having them in his hand, it left as quickly as it came but Sherlock was desperate to bring it back. He peeled off the packets and hastily pressed each circular patch atop his flesh.

A strangled, choked cry tore from his throat, lacing the room with even more remorse and dark sadness that had already been weaves and knitted thick in the air.  
He was on 8 patches, he knew the risks of nicotine poisoning though it didn't bother him too much. Partly because he was relishing in the fizzing feeling coursing through his veins and the other because he knew no matter what it wouldn't be getting any better so what was the point in keeping safe and healthy and...alive.

Finally his ever colour changing eyes re opened, pupils dilated like a cat, sweat gleaming on his forehead and wild, dark curls an unruly mess.  
With his white shirt selves rolled up to his elbows, sweat noticeably making the thin and slightly see through fabric stick to his chest and stomach, legs long and tangled like a spiders and barefoot. It was surely a sight when Mrs Hudson walked in, along with the fact that there were two small open boxes of strewn nicotine patches.

"Oh dear Sherlock, what are you doing to yourself?" She cried, bustling quickly over and cleaning up the mess of the patches, placing them in the coffee table before trying to kneel beside Sherlock's upper body.  
His eyes snapped to her, first wary and defensive like an animal before acknowledging who it was and looking back at the ceiling blankly, allowing his arms to hang and lie limply either beside him or off the couch.

Her elderly hands gently and a little shakily lingered over his forearms, noting the amount of nicotine that was probably in his system.  
"Sherlock you can't do this, it's dangerous- oh I'm calling John."  
It was then that he showed he was actually alive and awake, his arm snapped out and took a tight grip on his land ladies own, eyes spiking and stabbing with the amount of intensity in their icy glare.  
"No." He protested, voice gravelly and slightly croaky.

Mrs Hudson showed no more than surprise, "You're not frightening to me Sherlock, I hope you realise."  
He responded with nothing but silence.  
She sighed, "Fine I won't call him, but let me make you a nice cuppa and I'll bring some biscuits. You wait right here."  
"Not...going anywhere." Sherlock replied in a slow, sarcastic tone.  
With that Mrs Hudson got up stiffly and walked quickly out and downstairs to make some tea and get some biscuits, leaving Sherlock alone once more who proceeded to do nothing but lay limp and look at the ceiling as if deep in thought, though he wasn't thinking about or seeing anything.  
Just...blank.

Though inside a war was raging, exhaustion coiling along his bones and muscles, emotion cutting through his veins and arteries, nicking his lungs and jabbing at his heart. The pain was unbearable, choking his windpipe and pressing down his chest.  
None of this was visible to the naked eye, with a mask knitted and weaved through his features since he was only a little boy, it was hard for anything to break through. But he could feel hot tears pricking behind the mask of his eyes sometimes. Sherlock wondered if Mrs Hudson ever noticed.

It was a few minutes later that Mrs Hudson came quickly up the stairs and entered 221B again carrying a metal plate of biscuits and in her other hand a cup of steaming tea which she set both down on the coffee table away from the nicotine patches.  
"I haven't seen you eat, or even drink for that matter, so come on, no backing out of this one." She ushered Sherlock to sit up, who grudgingly obliged, wishing the light was off so his over caring landlady couldn't see the dark rings around his eyes.

"Oh you look dreadful Sherlock, come on then, eat and have a drink." She handed him the cup and took a seat beside him.  
He simply stared at the tea, wishing someone else had made it for him wishing someone else had tried to make him drink it.

His phone went off, which had been laying on the arm rest of the couch, he looked over as if he didn't have the energy to use his arm and pick it up, it took a moment but he set down his tea and instead replaced it with an iPhone.

Talk to John - MH

Sherlock scowled at the screen and tossed the phone behind him on the couch, since when did you ever care? He snarled in his head, Mrs Hudson frowned handing him his cup again, "Mycroft?"  
Replying with a low grunt of affirmation, he took a sip of the steaming tea and remained silent, wishing he could be alone.

In the corner of his eye he could see Mrs Hudson was looking at the many nicotine patches on his skin with a disapproving frown on her face. Sherlock responded by setting a low snarl across his features and whipping the sleeve back down, doing up the cuff buttons in one swift and fluid motion.

She continued to frown but instead if doing anything, she stood and said, "We'll if you need anything, just yell." And with that she left back downstairs.  
Sherlock grunted in reply, waiting until the door had shut before looking back up and setting the tea down.

The patches weren't doing anything and he needed a relief, fast. Striding over to the fireplace, he retrieved the pack of cigarettes underneath his skull which he had never been bothered to move.  
Ripping them open with shaking fingers, he drew out one and fiddled it between his fingers, thinking of the one person who would hate him doing this.

But once again, a snarl scrunched his face, he never even bothers to text me anymore, why should I care? And with that thought, he pulled out his lighter, putting the cigarette between his lips and lighting the tip.  
Breathing in as deeply as his could, his eyes rolled back in sudden pleasure, relief rolling off him in waves, he breathed out, tilting his head back and smoke filling the room.  
Keeping the cigarette in his mouth, he pulled his sleeves up again and removed the patches, no longer needing them. Once they were chucked in the bin, he continued smoking the proper way and for once in nearly 3 months he felt better.

Three cigarettes later the room was filled with smoke, Sherlock moved over to the window, unlocked and pushed it open letting in fresh air and the sounds of life into the flat.  
The room grew chilly as Sherlock lit another smoke, rolling it between his fingers and taking drags occasionally while aimlessly wandering and standing about the flat.

It was then that a knock sounded on the door and a woman's shy voice, "It's Molly."  
A sigh fell from his mouth, she had been checking up on him once a week ever since Mary had the baby. As if she he thought something was wrong, nothing was wrong he protested to himself. Nothing was wrong...

Taking another drag, he held the cigarette by his side as he opened the door, raising an eyebrow at the anxious blonde before him.  
She smiled, "Just thought I'd pop by, see if you wanted company."  
He gestured for her to come in, turning and walking over by the window, muttering, "Nope." Under his breath.

"So how have you been- Sherlock!" Molly yelled, coming over and smacking the cigarette out of his hand, stomping on it once it was on the floor.  
"What were you thinking? Don't smoke!"  
Sherlock only glared down at her, wasting a perfectly good cigarette, how dare she come in and stomp over his choices.

"Don't give me that look, you know it's not good Sherlock. What would John think?" She cried.  
At the mention of John, he flinched visibly and felt all the emotion he had tried valiantly to smother come back to hurt him.  
Molly stopped, noticing the flinch and instantly felt terrible, "Oh I'm so sorry Sherlock, I didn't mean-" but he had already started stalking off, entering his room and shutting the door, locking it before she could change his mind.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he heard his name called a few times before the flat door was opened and closed and steps going down the stairs.  
Now that he knew he was alone and not being watched, he allowed a single tear to escape and crawl down his pale cheek.  
All the frustration built up suddenly started to crack and break, overflowing like a dam. He stood, grabbing the first thing he could reach, an empty cup and ditched it at the wall, shattering instantly on impact.

He punched at the wall, causing a hole from it being hollow, he turned and struck out a kick onto the cabinet, the objects on top shaking and a book toppling over.  
Sherlock then clutched and pulled at his hair, tears now steaming down his face, he closed his eyes tightly, every nerve in his body on fire. With one last, almighty kick against the bed, he let out a suffering scream and fell to his knees, reduced to a silent screaming and sobbing mess. Now trying to make a little noise as possible.

Eventually, he pulled himself onto his bed, laying with his back to the door, curled up and muscles clenched in pain.  
Everything he had been trying not to think about rushed in, Moriarty apparently bring alive and coming back, John leaving and not being in contact with him for months now that Mary had the baby. John...  
He remembered the call he had received from him, saying he wanted no part or at least not much to do with Moriarty now that he had his wife and child. Never knowing what Moriarty was to do next. So that left Sherlock alone to deal with the man he had tried so hard to get away and forget.  
Nothing made sense to him anymore, he felt so helpless, just wishing that none of this was happening.  
He hated feeling out of character, sometimes he wished he could have stayed in the solitude he had practised for years.

It just proved Mycroft was right, that Sherlock shouldn't have gotten involved. This made him feel worse.  
He had left the wedding early, finding out about the baby, no one give him acknowledgement once he was left alone as everyone danced. Just went to show he had friends but no those type of friends.  
Cold gripped his chest and started to suffocate him, the crying made it worse, he was struggling to breathe against the pain he was so un used to. His arms, which were wrapped tightly around his waist, tightened, his hands stretching out and fingers curling like talons, nails digging into his flesh.

Goosebumps rippled his skin and amongst the cold he felt warm where his nails dug in, it gave relief but also caused blood to dribble down.  
It took a few hours, but finally he fell asleep.

Mrs Hudson bit her nails, looking at the roof, hearing no more noise. She felt her own tears pricking her eyes as she pulled out her phone and dialling the familiar number.

"John Watson." Came the voice from the phone.  
"John, I need you to come down to 221B." Mrs Hudson said, her voice shaking with worry and desperation.  
"What why? I'm busy. What has Sherlock done now?" He asked, half sighing by the end if it.  
"He needs you. John, just for a little. Why can't you spare a few hours? It'll do him good." She tried.

A crying came from the background of Johns end, he sighed, "I can't spare the time. If he wants someone to work a case with him then he can ask Molly again. I can't always be the one to entertain him when he's bored. If he hasn't noticed, I'm busy with a baby and a tired wife."  
"No John, it's not like that-"

But John had already hung up.


End file.
